The Criminal, The Hacker and The Detective
by DoctorCrookshanksHolmes
Summary: Lisbeth Salander pairs up with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to bring Moriarty down. Alternate Universe.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own any characters from the Millennium Series or Sherlock. I just borrowed them!**

Breathless, her side screaming in pain, Lisbeth ran for her life through the dilapidated factory. She knew, somewhere close behind her, was Moriarty's 'hired' thug - hired meaning someone he had threatened with someone they held close, someone they felt they couldn't live without. She had been threatened the same way when Moriarty had taken Blomkvist... only that hadn't ended as happily as the majority of Moriarty's threats. Mostly, he'd torture the family and then return them once he was done with a thug. With Blomkvist, things had ended a bit more... violetly.

Pushing painful thoughts of Mikael out of her mind, she focused on breathing, running and avoiding the bits of metal that seemed to appear everywhere on the floor. Step, breathe. Step, breathe. Step, bre-

"Shit!" She yelled as her shoelace got caught on a nail sticking out of a plank on the floor. She fell, hard, the bit of wood jutting into her side as she hit the floor. Another nail tore into the flesh covering her ribs and as blood poured from the wound, her pursuer caught up with her and grabbed her arm.

"Come on, Salander," he said, breathing hard. "It'll be easier for both of us."

Staring at the man before her, she notices just how sickly he looked. Purple circles surrounded bloodshot eyes - whether they were from sleeplessness or abuse, she couldn't tell. His clothes were filthy; he hadn't changed in days. The wedding band on his left ring finger was loose, suggesting weight loss, weight loss that had happened fairly quickly, judging by the way his jeans hung off of once-thick hips.

All of this flickered through her brain in mere seconds before she decided to come quietly and leave this man to his own decisions; perhaps he could get his family (wife, two young girls, judging by the paint on his nails) to safety and out of Moriarty's grasp.

Moriarty she could deal with. More blood on her hands, however, was not acceptable under Salander's Principles.

'Except Moriarty," she thought. "I'll kill that bastard with no second thoughts."

She allowed the man to lead her out and began devising a plan for Moriarty's demise.

"Oh, dear! I seem to have cut up your tattoo!" Moriarty beamed, holding up a bloody knife.

Lisbeth fumed silently, fingers twitching in pain. That dragon /was/ her. It represented her more than anything else, and Moriarty had ruined it. All those hours in the tattoo parlor getting the beautiful design over the majority of her back, wasted. She was going to /murder/ the imbecile.

She quietly assessed the damage Moriarty had inflicted so far. "Multiple lacerations to her back, bruising all over her body, severe pain in her left knee and two - no, three broken ribs," she thought with a wince. "Could be much worse."

She pursed her lips and clenched her fingernails into her palms as Moriarty leaned right over her face. "I think it's time for the final touches!" He said, a grin stretching over his face. He picked up a long needle connected to a brown vial.

"I think Sherlock will find this particularly amusing," he murmured as he pushed it into her arm and injected the contents into her bloodstream.

Her mind managed to figure out it was an opiate of some kind before she passed out.

Lisbeth awoke slowly, limbs stiff with slow-moving blood and drugs. Her head was pounding and her back was on fire and pressed against leather; she was inside a car or on a boat if anything was to be gathered from the rolling sensation she was feeling.

"Ah, good! You're awake!" Moriarty said happily. "We're taking you to a new home. I think you'll find this friend of mine quite interesting!"

The car stopped and Lisbeth groaned, her stomach churning. Moriarty unbuckled his safety belt and grabbed Lisbeth's arm, studying her intently. "I think," he murmured, "I think you can bear a little more pain."

With a wicked grin, he pushed a small knife into her side and opened the car door. With a flourish, he wrenched the knife from her gut and pushed her out onto the street. "221B!" He shouted. "Have fun!

Lisbeth fell onto the curb, blood pouring from multiple parts of her body and rain soaking what little clothing Moriarty had left her with. A shriek of pain just barely swallowed, she pushed herself up and stumbled toward the door Moriarty had pointed. This would either be certain death or her salvation. Mustering what little strength she had left, she pounded on the door and leaned into it, praying to every deity she could think of that someone was home.

"SHERLOCK! FINGERS DO NOT BELONG IN THE JAM!" John's voice rang out over the rain and thunder.

Sherlock looked up from his place on the couch. He had forgotten entirely about that particular experiment.

"Yes, yes, sorry," Sherlock said, distracted. He had heard something a few moments ago and couldn't discern what it was.

"John, did you hear something?" He asked. "Never mind, of course you didn't. You were yelling. I think someone is at the door."

John nodded. "Right. I suppose I'll go look, then?" He walked out before Sherlock could respond, so Sherlock's mind moved to bigger things such as how many grams of cocaine someone could carry in their stomach before internal functions shut down.

"SHERLOCK! HELP ME!" John shouted from the stairs.

Sherlock leaped up and ran to where John seemed toto be struggling to haul a bloody corpse up the stairs. Without question, he grabber the girl's legs and helped carry her to the kitchen table. He ran upstairs and grabbed sheets and John's first aid kit and ran back downstairs where John was trying to get the girl to wake up.

"Hello? Can you hear me? My name is John. Can you tell us who you are? I'll phone an ambulance for you."

Her eyes fluttered weakly. "No," she whispered, a strange accent ringing from vocal cords raw from screaming. "No ambulance."

John glanced at Sherlock and then back to the girl. "Okay. What's your name?"

The girl gave a loud, body wracking cough before murmuring "Lisbeth. I'm Lisbeth," and passing out.

**A.N.- Suggestions and reviews welcome!**


	2. Chapter 2

I don't own any characters from the Millennium Series or Sherlock. I just borrowed them!

Sherlock was squatting on the couch; brow furrowed as he attempted to analyze the young woman called Lisbeth John was stitching up. She was younger than he was, but was well out of her teens; he'd put her at 25 or so. She had (dyed) black hair, judging by her eyebrows. He noticed a wasp tattoo on her neck and a simple tribal band on her ankle, and he assumed there was more. She looked like an average mid-twenties girl on the darker side of pop culture, except she was very skinny, borderline anorexic looking, and her clothes hung off her body like they had been lived in.

He couldn't figure out her accent or why she had shown up here... unless Moriarty had something to do with it.

"Sherlock? I know you're trying to figure this out and all, but I could use your help," John said, snapping Sherlock out of his reverie. Sherlock jumped up and walked over to where John was standing by the girl.

John pointed to the girl. "I need to look at her back now. I've fixed most of what I can on her front, but before I can set her ribs I need to fix whatever it is that's bleeding on her back. Can you turn her over and cut her shirt off while I go wash my hands and get more antiseptic?"

Sherlock nodded and turned the girl over, noticing that her shirt was stuck to her back. He picked up the scissors and carefully cut off her shirt before staring in horror at Lisbeth's back.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" He heard John say before John gasped.

On the girl's back was a dragon tattoo, which had most likely been beautiful work before someone had cut "I O U" in large capital letters down her back. The tattoo was marred, the skin around the lacerations raw and pink.

"Moriarty," Sherlock said in a flat voice.

John shook his head and grimaced. "That's going to be terrible to stitch up."

Sherlock heard the girl murmur something. He knelt down by her head and raised an eyebrow.

"Is my dragon okay?" She murmured, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it all the same.

Sherlock stared into her pale eyes and saw anger, determination and just a hint of sadness. He made a split second decision and lied.

"It'll be fine. It's not too bad. Just a scratch."

John stared open-mouthed at Sherlock. Never before had he lied to spare someone worry.

Lisbeth smiled crookedly. "Lögnare, lögnare, geni pojke," she whispered, winking at him before passing out again.

Sherlock stood up. She had insulted him in Swedish. And then winked.

He wracked his brain, comparing her accent to what she had said. It matched.

He turned to John and said "Swedish. She's Swedish."

"What did she say to you?" John asked slowly.

"Lögnare, lögnare, geni pojke. It means 'Liar, liar, genius boy.' She knew I was lying," he replied with a smile. "She was insulting me."

John nodded. "Understandable. I'm going to try to fix her back as best I can and hopefully not mess her tattoo up more. If you want to help, go to the store and pick up some clothes for her to wear until she can get some of her own."

Sherlock nodded and turned on his heel and left.

John worked for what seemed like forever trying to get her tattoo to align perfectly and then stitch it back together without ruining it, or ruin it more than it already was. He completely ignored Sherlock when he came back with clothes and food and kept working. After three gruelling hours, he stepped back and sighed.

"I did my best. I hope it's not too bad."

Sherlock came over and looked. He nodded and said "She looks much better. I can set her ribs. You'd probably mess it up if you tried now. Go sleep."

John nodded, exhausted. "I'll be down in a couple hours to check on her."

Sherlock nodded, already setting the unconscious girl's ribs. Afterwards, he covered her with a blanket, set the bag full of clothes out for her and retired to the couch and entered his mind palace for the night.

When Lisbeth woke, the first thing she thought was 'I'm not wearing clothes.'

The second thing she thought was "OUCH."

She groaned and sat up, ignoring the stabbing pain in her ribs from where Moriarty had broken them. Sherlock watched her sit up before saying "You probably shouldn't move much yet."

Lisbeth flinched when she heard his voice. It was cold and emotionless, not unlike the one she had used with Moriarty.

She turned to him and said "I need clothes."

He gestured to the bag next to the table she had slept on. "There's clothes in there, but I make no guarantee that they'll fit."

She nodded and carefully slid off the table, wincing as she put weight on her left foot. Her knee was still sore. She tried to bend over and grab the bag but had to stop because of her ribs. She couldn't squat because of her knee. She was stuck. She stared at the bag for a minute before an idea popped into her head. She stood on her right leg and pushed her left foot through the loop of the bag and lifted as much as she could. Bracing herself on the table, she leaned over as much as she could and just managed to grab the bag and haul it onto the table.

Smiling triumphantly, she reached inside the bag and pulled out jeans, a sweatshirt, cargo shorts, undergarments and a regular t-shirt, all in black.

"I thought you'd like black best," Sherlock said from his place on the couch.

Lisbeth nodded. "Ja," she said before she caught herself. "Yes," she amended, assuming he didn't know Swedish.

Sherlock's lips twitched when he heard her slip. The first time it had been intentional. This time, however, was a complete accident. He watched her struggle with the undergarments for a minute before saying "Care for some help?"

She glared at him, obviously irritated and held out the clothes. He helped her into the shorts and the sweatshirt.

She nodded at him and murmured a thanks.

He smirked and went back to the sofa, sprawling out and retreating into his mind palace. Lisbeth took a seat in John's chair and waited for him to come down, hoping that they would be able to help her.


	3. Chapter 3

I don't own any characters from the Millennium Series or Sherlock. I just borrowed them!

John woke up to his mobile ringing. He groaned and reached over to answer it. "Mmph. Hullo?"

"Were you planning on sleeping all day? Lisbeth and I have been waiting for you to wake up for almost an hour," Sherlock's irritated voice came through the mobile. John heard an angry exclamation in a language he didn't recognise and Sherlock chuckled. "Anyways, hurry down. I want tea."

John sighed. Just once, couldn't Sherlock make his own damn tea? "Be down in a bit," he mumbled before rolling out of bed.

Downstairs, Lisbeth glared at Sherlock as Sherlock turned off his mobile. "Jävel," she muttered, mentally adding him to her list of People To Insult. She picked at what was left of her nail polish and waited for the much nicer man called John to come downstairs.

Sherlock held back a smirk when he heard her call him a bastard under her breath. He knew it probably wasn't a great idea to irritate a girl who had been tortured and looked at him like she would have no problem attacking him despite her injuries, but he couldn't resist. She was almost like John; she reacted so similarly to the way John did when Sherlock was intentionally irritating.

Sherlock heard John coming down the stairs; he was limping slightly. Sherlock frowned. Something John did last night had made his psychosomatic limp come back, if only slightly, and Sherlock didn't know what it was.

"Tea!" Sherlock called as John came into view. He had dark circles under his eyes and his limp, while not very noticeable, was still prominent to call for concern.

"Make your own bloody tea, Sherlock. I'm not doing it," John said, dragging Sherlock's chair across the room and placing it near Lisbeth's so that he faced Sherlock. "Before anything else happens, I need to check your bandages," he said to Lisbeth, noting that her eyes widened slightly when he said this.

Lisbeth shook her head. "I've already done it," she said, motioning toward her knee.

John shook his head. "I mean the ones on your back. Those are the ones I'm worried about."

Lisbeth looked at him for a minute before nodding. She pulled off the sweatshirt, wincing slightly as a sharp stab of pain went through her chest as her ribs shifted.

"Ah, yes," she heard John say. "Your ribs are just cracked, not broken. They won't take as long to heal, but you still shouldn't do much for awhile."

She nodded and turned away, baring her back to John.

John carefully pulled off her bandages and replaced them with new ones, studying the damage to her tattoo.

"How bad?" Lisbeth managed to speak in a steady voice. "How bad is my dragon?"

John considered it. "There will be some scarring and it may distort slightly, but I don't think the dragon will be affected much. The cuts that aren't on your tattoo, however, will be much more visible."

Lisbeth frowned. "What do the cuts look like?"

"He cut 'I O U' into your back," Sherlock cut in. "It's a message to me, I think."

John finished putting bandages on Lisbeth's back and she pulled the sweatshirt back on.

"How do you know Moriarty?" Lisbeth asked slowly. "What do you know about him?"

Sherlock leaned forward. "I was going to ask you the same thing."

Lisbeth stared at Sherlock for a bit before she began to talk.

"I work for Milton Security back in Sweden," she began. "My supervisor Armansky was contacted by a Detective Inspector Laystade who wanted one Lisbeth Salander to come work for him."

Sherlock found her mispronunciation of Lestrade's name oddly amusing; normally it would bother him and he'd have corrected her immediately, but in her accent it sounded different. He shook his head and refocused.

"He said he had heard of my... talent for research, what my employer calls and wanted help finding someone and that I would be filled in when I arrived. I was intercepted on the way here. Moriarty took my friend." She swallowed hard, remembering the way they had taken Blomkvist.

John looked at Lisbeth, startled when he heard her say friend the same way Sherlock said it. The more the girl spoke, the more she resembled Sherlock.

"He kept me in an abandoned factory. He would come and go, never saying what he wanted with me, just coming in and smiling at me. The first time, he just stood there saying 'Look at me.' I wouldn't." Sherlock noticed her fingers shaking. "He called someone and said something quickly; I couldn't make it out. But when he hung up I heard - I heard my friend screaming. That jävel tortured him." Lisbeth stopped abruptly and shook her head, black hair flying everywhere.

Sherlock nodded, already categorizing everything she said. "When you say you have a talent for research, what does that mean?"

Lisbeth looked up, chewing on her lip where her ring should be. "I find things out about people and write reports on them," she said carefully, not wanting to reveal her secret. Blomkvist was the only one who knew she was a hacker, unless you counted Plague (she didn't count him) and her other online friends.

Sherlock smirked. "So you're a consulting stalker.

Suddenly defensive, Lisbeth snapped back, "Håll käften! What do you do that makes you so special?"

Sherlock was startled by her sudden vehemence. John certainly never snapped so quickly. "I most certainly will not shut up. I'm a consulting detective. John works at the hospital."

Lisbeth snorted. "You're a consulting detective. Moriarty is a consulting criminal. You sure he's not a consulting doctor?" She motioned to John.

John looked from Sherlock to Lisbeth. Sherlock was amused, teasing this girl until she snapped. She, however, seemed to be letting off steam, and if anyone was going into a shouting match with Sherlock and win, it would probably be this girl.

"He's not as much of a consulting doctor as you are a consulting hacker," Sherlock said smugly.

Lisbeth stared at him in silent fury.

She switched to Swedish because she knew he could understand her and John couldn't.

"Vad vet du om mig?" She asked.

'What do you know about me?' Sherlock translated in his mind. He smiled. "Nothing," he said in English. "Nothing at all."

She glared at him. John looked at them, quite irritated to not know what they were talking about.

" Du kommer inte att berätta för någon. Förstå? Om någon hittar ut, jag injicerar våld dig med droger. Vi rensar?" She snarled.

Sherlock gaped at her. She had threatened him with drugs. She had told him if he mentioned her 'talent', she would violently inject him with drugs. He wracked his brain, trying to figure out how she had known.

"Understood," he said carefully.

She nodded, breathing slowly through her nose to try to slow her heartbeat. He had reacted strangely when she had mentioned drugs. Perhaps he was a junkie. 'I'll have to study this further,' she thought.

"So," John interjected. "What now?"

Lisbeth stood. "I'm going to go find the one who called me here."

Sherlock stood up. "We'll take you to Lestrade. The game, Miss Salander, is on." He turned with a flourish and walked out the door, grabbing his coat on the way.

Lisbeth turned to John, a question flitting across her face.

John nodded. "Yeah, he's always like that."


	4. Chapter 4

I don't own any characters from the Millennium Series or Sherlock. I just borrowed them!

John sat in the most uncomfortable silence he had ever had the misfortune of experiencing. Lisbeth had sat across from John in the back of the large cab, leaving Sherlock to either sit next to a fuming Lisbeth or sit across from John and be subjected to her angry glares. He chose the latter.

"So," John said, trying to get Lisbeth to start talking before she launched herself at Sherlock; she looked quite tense. "Where did you get your dragon tattoo done?"

Lisbeth's facial expression didn't change much, but her body relaxed a bit and her hands relaxed out of their fists. "A tattoo parlor near where I lived. They did all of them."

"Do they all mean something?" John asked, intrigued.

"Of course they do. Don't be stupid," Sherlock interjected. "They always do. The dragon represents strength, or as much strength as a girl of her size can muster, anyways. The wasp is supposed to be for an ex, however she'll tell you it keeps her strong. The tribal band on her ankle represents unity; it's a very simple, common one so she probably got it with a group of her friends. I assume she has others, but as I can't see them, I can't deduce them." He turned expectantly toward her, obviously expecting her to be surprised at his perfect deductions.

Lisbeth started laughing, clutching her ribs as pain shot through her body. Her slight frame shook with mirth as she picked apart her deductions. She hadn't laughed like this in such a long time.

Sherlock frowned. "What? What did I miss? What?"

"You got... everything ... WRONG!" She said between bubbles of laughter.

Sherlock shook his head. "Impossible. I'm never wrong."

Lisbeth slowly stopped laughing. She regarded Sherlock with cold eyes. She turned to John, then back to Sherlock. "I'll tell you what one of them means in return for you telling me something about the two of you," she offered with a sly smile.

John nodded at the same time that Sherlock said "Absolutely not."

John looked at Sherlock, surprised. Sherlock shook his head. "I don't need to know about her tattoos. Boring."

Lisbeth grinned crookedly. She could tell when people lied and Sherlock had a serious tell. His left index finger twitched twice. It was the same thing he had done when telling her she would be okay while they looked at her back.

The cab driver pulled up at Scotland Yard and Lisbeth stepped out, expecting John and Sherlock to stay in the cab. To her surprise, they paid and followed her out of the cab. Sherlock turned to her and frowned. "We're going to inform Lestrade of how you found us. It's up to you to decide how much you want to tell him."

Lisbeth nodded, her black hair flying everywhere in the wind. She reached for the rubber band she kept on her wrist only to find it wasn't there. She sighed, frustrated, and turned to follow Sherlock into the building.

Once inside, Sergeant Donovan walked up to Sherlock and stopped, blocking his path. "Whatcha doing here, freak? Lestrade hasn't called you."

Sherlock sneered at her. "I'm delivering something."

"Oh yeah? Whatcha delivering?" She asked before noticing Lisbeth. "Who's this?"

"Lisbeth Salander. Lestrade called me to do profiles." Lisbeth, in an attempt to be sociable like Blomkvist had taught her, stuck out her right hand.

Donovan stared in disbelief at Lisbeth. "He hired you?" She asked, incredulous. She turned to Sherlock. "I thought working with freak number one was bad enough, and you don't even work here!" She stormed off.

Lisbeth smirked. "I think I'm going to like it here," she said.

Sherlock's lips twitched before he said "Come on. Lestrade will be waiting."

Sherlock led Lisbeth to Lestrade's office and opened the door. Lestrade looked up and said "Sherlock, I don't have anything for you. Go home. I'll call you when I need you."

Sherlock nodded. "I've brought something."

Lisbeth snorted and pushed past Sherlock. "Hullo, detective inspector. I'm Lisbeth Salander."

Lestrade studied her. She looked terrible. "Right. And how did you come to meet Sherlock?"

"Moriarty captured me. He held me for a bit and then dropped me off at 221B," Lisbeth said in a toneless voice.

Lestrade frowned. "Just like that? That sounds rather painless for Moriarty."

Lisbeth nodded. "It was a bit... messier than that," she said carefully.

Lestrade's eyes widened a bit. He scribbled something on a bit of paper and held it out to her. "You can start on Monday. This day is almost over and nobody works the office on weekends."

Lisbeth frowned. "I prefer to work nights. I have a laptop. I can do all my work on there."

Lestrade smiled and turned towards Sherlock. "She reminds me of you." Turning back toward Lisbeth, he said "I'm pretty flexible when it comes to where you work as long as it gets done on time."

Lisbeth nodded. "Understood."

Greg's face evened out and his voice became more serious. "I would like to hear what happened while you were with Moriarty, though."

Lisbeth nodded. "Another time?" She asked, hoping she wouldn't have to recount it for the second time that day.

Lestrade nodded. "Just come here at the time I wrote down for Monday. We'll get everything taken care of."

Lisbeth agreed. "Anything else?"

Lestrade shook his head. "No. You can go. It was a pleasure to meet you."

Lisbeth nodded and turned on her heel and walked out, Sherlock following suit. They found John talking to the new intern and laughing. Lisbeth snorted. 'He must be a womanizer like Blomkvist,' she thought. She slowed her step, not quite sure where she was going and not wanting to admit it. She was about to turn around when she felt something slam into her ribs and pain shoot through her whole body. A cry escaped her lips and she fell forward, certain she would land on her already sore knee. A pair of strong arms wrapped around her abdomen to keep her from falling.

"Donovan. What the hell was that?" Sherlock snarled, holding Lisbeth up as she struggled to regain her breath.

"Freak number two needs her copy of our rules and her ID. I was handing hers to her," Donovan said sweetly.

"Psykotisk... slyna!" Lisbeth wheezed.

"What was that?" Donovan asked angrily.

"She called you a psychotic bitch, and I quite agree," Sherlock translated, eyes flashing.

Donovan sneered and walked away.

John stepped forward to where Donovan had stood moments earlier. "Did they crack further? Are you in intense pain?"

"Not broken," she said, finally able to speak freely. "Just hurt."

John nodded, obviously relieved. A strange grin spread across his face and he said "Uh, Sherlock? You can probably let go of her now..."

Sherlock started, realizing his arms were still wrapped around Lisbeth's stomach. He quickly let go and stepped away, cheeks slightly pink.

John shook his head, grin still in place. "Lisbeth, do you have a place to stay?"

Lisbeth shook her head.

"Well, why don't you stay with us for the time being? We have plenty of room," John said with a grin.

Sherlock nodded and shook his head at the same time. "Italian tonight?" He asked in an unnaturally high (for him) voice.

Lisbeth and John both nodded; they walked out to hail a cab and grab takeout.

* * *

Moriarty danced up the stairs of 221B to leave Lisbeth's completely untouched shoulder bag that contained her laptop and wallet, along with a few of her other essentials. He left it on the floor in plain view of the door, and before he left, he wrote 'I O U' on a slip of paper and taped it to her laptop.

With a grin, he snapped his gum and twirled out the door and outside, quite excited to start Step Two.


	5. Chapter 5

I don't own any characters from the Millennium Series or Sherlock. I just borrowed them!

Much to Sherlock's displeasure, his favourite Italian restaurant was closed for the day - a gas leak, according to Sherlock, though Lisbeth was doubtful. So they hopped back into the cab and traveled to 221B.

John had gotten in first, leaving Lisbeth to choose if she wanted to sit by him or across from Sherlock and John. She chose the latter.

She stretched out over the seat, wincing as her knee muscle pulled a bit. She poked at her ribs, one of them hurting more than the rest. She frowned, prodding a bit harder. It didn't feel broken - that is, not any more than Moriarty had cracked it.

Sherlock noticed Lisbeth's actions. "Did Donovan break it?" Sherlock asked, obviously irritated at the Sergeant's actions.

Lisbeth looked up and met his eyes. "No," she grumbled. "Just bruised, I think."

John looked concerned. "Would you like me to look at it?"

"Ja," Lisbeth nodded. She pulled up the sweatshirt Sherlock had bought and winced. "This one," she said, pointing to the one right underneath her bra.

Sherlock's cheeks turned pink and he pulled out his mobile and texted Mycroft a photo of chocolate cake.

"Well, I don't think it cracked any more. Think you should be okay," John said, putting slight pressure on the rib in question. "I don't know what Donovan was thinking, hitting you with that book. She's not usually that hostile."

Sherlock snorted. "John, don't lie. She's almost always like that."

John cleared his throat. "Yes. Well. She's not physically violent is what I meant."

Sherlock nodded and got his wallet out just as the cabbie pulled over by the flat. He handed over some money and walked up to the door; he stopped suddenly and John ran into him, cursing. "What the hell, Sherlock?"

"Someone was here. The door isn't locked. I locked the door."

"Moriarty," Lisbeth growled. "I'm going to KILL him."

She wrenched open the door and ran as fast as she could up the stairs, her knee almost giving out in the process. She burst into the flat, breathing heavily and looking around for any sign of Moriarty. She froze when she saw her bag; Moriarty had taken it when he had taken her.

Sherlock had sprinted after her, swearing under his breath. He reached the top of the stairs and saw Lisbeth standing completely still.

"What is that?" He asked, noticing the bag.

"My laptop case," Lisbeth said quietly. "He took it from me when he took me."

John found Sherlock carefully observing Lisbeth as she stared at the bag. Lisbeth slowly approached the bag and went through the contents. She searched for a minute or so before pulling something out triumphantly. "Dinner is on me," she said proudly, holding out money. "Pizza sound okay?"

John laughed and Sherlock nodded. "Sounds good," John said.

Lisbeth grinned. "I'm going to change, okej? Do you mind if I use your shower?"

"Thhng," Sherlock started. He cleared his throat, confused. "That's fine."

John smirked and told her where it was. She took her bag and walked upstairs. Sherlock turned to John and said "Any kind as long as there's no mushrooms, vegetables or anchovies." He paused, taking in the look on John's face. "You're making a face," he stated. "Why?"

John shook his head, still grinning. "You're just acting like you did when Irene was around, only more."

Sherlock cocked his head. "I don't want onions either," he said decisively. He paused. "Are onions vegetables?"

John looked at Sherlock, amazed. "How you can be so unbelievably smart but so incredibly thick is beyond me. Go to your mind palace and figure it out. I'll order."

Sherlock walked over to the couch and sprawled out, retreating into his mind palace.

Upstairs, Lisbeth had pulled her favourite jeans out of her bag and laid them out, staring at them. She hadn't put them on since before Blomkvist had been taken. She had associated them with him and hadn't been able to pull them on. She turned away and got in the shower, which had finally warmed up. She pulled a bottle at random and washed with it, realizing too late that it was heavily perfumed and smelled like what Sherlock smelled like. "Too late now," she thought. She ran some through her hair and rinsed it out, turned the water off and stepped out. She towelled off and pulled clothes on, staring at her jeans for a minute before finally putting the cargo shorts back on, pushing her jeans back in her bag. She lined her eyes with black eyeliner and shook water out of her hair, pulling it back into a rubber band and pinning the stray strands with bobby pins. She pulled on a black tank top, and grabbed ber tazer out of her bag and pushed it into her bottom left pocket. She picked up her bag and walked back downstairs.

Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch and John was typing away at his computer. She put her bag down and pulled out her computer. Just as she was about to power it on, the doorbell rang. She grabbed her wallet and ran down the stairs. She paid for the pizza and staggered up the stairs. She handed them to John and said "Should I get Sherlock?"

John glanced up at her. "You can try if you'd like. I make no guarantees that he'll respond. Oh, and thanks for this," he said, waving at the food.

"Igna problem," she replied. When John looked at her curiously, she translated "I said no problem." Lisbeth smiled crookedly.

She walked toward Sherlock, who was laying on the couch with his fingertips pressed together under his chin.

"Hey, lata röv, get up. Food is here," Lisbeth said, tapping his chest with a finger.

Sherlock, who happened to be revisiting the last time he had been taught about vegetables and what criteria a vegetable had to have to be considered a vegetable (good lord, his vocabulary was lacking today) when he heard Lisbeth's voice in the distance. Something about lazy food. He sighed and came out of his mind palace, only to jump in surprise when he saw Lisbeth.

She was wearing a tank top. He hadn't seen so much of her skin since she was covered in blood from still-oozing lacerations on her back. She had eyeliner on. She had actually lined her eyes in black. His mind wasn't functioning properly; he looked at John and tried to deduce him. 'Date tomorrow - new receptionist at Scotland Yard. Recent trouble with Harriet - dark circles around eyes, no evening beer. Psychosomatic limp reappearing slightly - at this he frowned. He'd figure it out later.

Turning back to Lisbeth, he said focused on anything but her eyes. "What?"

She snorted. "I said pizza's here. And you're eating since I paid. Kom igen." At this she offered her hand to him, obviously expecting to pull him up. He took her hand cautiously, standing up quickly and pulling his hand back.

Sherlock and Lisbeth joined John at the table for dinner, the consulting detective, hacker and doctor all sitting together.

Moriarty snapped his gum, irritated. Why hadn't she turned her laptop on? And why was Sherlock so affected by her? This wouldn't do; it simply would. Not. Do.

A manic smile on his face, he called his 'friend', the mobile ringing once before the other line picked up.

"Good evening, Mycroft. We have a problem with your brother."


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock's original assumption that Lisbeth was anorexic was proven false when he watched her put away nearly four slices of pizza. She ate like John, only John ate six slices. Sherlock frowned, looking down at the two pieces he had picked apart. John obviously hadn't listened when he said no onions- and for god's sake, was an onion a vegetable or not?  
"Sherlock," John said, amusement tinging his voice. "What are you looking at?"  
"Just tell me if it's a vegetable or not!" Sherlock burst out, irritated. "I deleted that information and I can't figure it out."  
Lisbeth grinned. "I think it's a fruit," she said, making eye contact with John to make sure he understood the game.  
Sherlock glanced at her. "Really? I don't think it's a fruit. Fruit doesn't go on pizza."  
"Pineapple, Sherlock. Tomatoes, too," John reminded him.  
"Don't be ridiculous. Tomatoes aren't fruit," Sherlock replied, his mind whirling. "And nobody puts pineapple on pizza."  
Lisbeth stood up. "Let's find out. I'll prove to you that tomatoes are fruit." She stood up and went to grab her laptop. She sat down next to Sherlock and pressed the power button.  
Sherlock stopped breathing. Breathing was boring. Breathing would confirm that she had used his shampoo. She smelled so GOOD.  
He clenched his fists and willed himself to think. As Lisbeth logged on, he felt himself relax. He was in control of his own body.  
Lisbeth froze. She didn't move an inch. She was staring at Blomkvist. A very ALIVE Blomkvist who seemed to be sleeping peacefully.  
Sherlock noticed her change in posture and frowned. He leaned over until he could see the screen; once he saw what was on screen, his eyes flickered to John's.  
"Lisbeth," Sherlock started. "Who is that?"  
"My friend," she whispered. "He's alive."  
She snapped to life, pressing buttons on her keyboard and mumbling. "Live feed, wonder if I can trace signal... Åh, skit! Plague... could Plague help? No, he's worthless." She looked up and realized Sherlock and John were staring at her, John amused and Sherlock concerned.  
She addressed Sherlock directly. " Är du okej med mig med mina "hacking" färdigheter?" She asked.  
Sherlock stared at her. She was asking his permission to hack her own computer? "That's fine," he said slowly. "Actually, no. My brother might have the place wired for something like that."  
Lisbeth swore and stood, not entirely sure where she was going but needing to go somewhere nonetheless. Her body was full of uncontrollable energy that she needed to expel.  
John, sensing trouble, decided to make a suggestion. "Right. We're all a little tense. How about we head down to a pub, grab a drink and then come back and get some sleep?"  
Lisbeth let out a sharp exhale and closed her eyes. She clenched her hands into fists, digging her nails into the flesh of her palm and nodded. "A drink sounds fantastiskt. Let's go."  
Sherlock frowned. "I'm coming too," he stated to no one in particular.  
John nodded, looking at Sherlock with a strange expression.  
Lisbeth walked forward and said "Lead the way."  
John grabbed his jacket and walked down the stairs to the door. Lisbeth tried to follow him, but Sherlock caught her hand before she could start down the stairs.  
"When under emotional stress, the human body craves pain to maintain equilibrium in emotional and physical arousal," Sherlock began. "If pain is denied, the body has ways of getting the stimulus it needs through subconscious tics. This, for example," he said, holding her hand up so he could see it better. Lisbeth frowned as she saw blood coming from her hand.  
"You seem to clench your fists until your fingernails break skin. Not a very healthy behavior," he finished with a smirk.  
Lisbeth snatched her hand back. "Åh, håll käften," she muttered, trying to shove her hands into her pockets.  
Sherlock grabbed her wrists. "No, I don't think I will shut up, and you will not just push your hands into your pockets. You will allow me to clean and bandage your hands, and only then will I allow you to follow John to the pub."  
Lisbeth made a face not unlike one he would make at Mycroft. Oh, yes. Mycroft. He needed to send him a photo of the leftover pizza.  
John came back upstairs and said "Erm, are you guys coming?"  
Sherlock waves him off. "Lisbeth's hand is bleeding. I'll bandage it. You're going to that Irish pub down the street, yes?"  
"Yeah," John says, a bit confused.  
"We'll meet you there," Sherlock says smoothly.  
John looked from Sherlock to Lisbeth, and then back to Sherlock,that strange grin returning. "Right. Okay, Sherlock. See you guys there," he said, smiling as he left.  
The door closed behind John and Sherlock walked to the counter of the kitchen where the first aid kit was still sitting. He picked up bandages and peroxide and walked back to Lisbeth. She held her hands out and stared pointedly at the wall.  
With a slight smirk, Sherlock cleaned the self-inflicted cuts and wrapped clean cloth around it. "I don't see the need for a large, bulky bandage. They aren't that bad."  
Lisbeth grabbed his wrist and felt for his pulse. Sherlock froze, hoping to any god he could remember that she wouldn't notice that his pulse was-  
"Elevated," Lisbeth murmured. She looked up at Sherlock's face, amused. "Tell me, Detective," she said, biting her lip on the word, "Why would someone's pulse be elevated at a time like this?" She leaned in close to him. " Är du attraherad av mig?" She practically purred.  
Sherlock's brain went fuzzy when she bit her lip. He tried to focus and almost got himself in check until she spoke in Swedish. His mind, which had always moved so quickly he had scarcely been able to keep up with himself, had skidded to a halt. He wasn't functional.  
"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, I'm attracted to you."  
"Interesting," Lisbeth murmured, standing up. She was practically dwarfed by his height, but that didn't stop her from walking him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the couch. He sank down, clenching his fists as she crawled on top of him. Her finger slid into his dark, curly hair, gripping lightly as she leaned down to kiss him.  
Sherlock was on fire. Lisbeth's lips were moving against his, her body pressed hard on top of his. His hands clenched and relaxed multiple times before he moved one to the back of her head and one to her lower back.  
She hissed, sounding for all the world like an angry snake, and attacked his lips with renewed passion. Sherlock responded, feeling like he did at University the first time he had done anything like this.  
She leaned down further, trying to get at his neck when she stopped and winced, pressing a hand to the rib Sargent Donovan had hit with the book earlier that day.  
Sherlock groaned and threw his head back. "I am going to KILL Donovan for this," he muttered. He glanced up at Lisbeth. She was frowning, obviously irritated.  
"Ja. Jag ska hjälpa," Lisbeth said.  
"Perhaps we should invite the rest of Scotland Yard and make it into a party," Sherlock suggested.  
Lisbeth laughed and got off of Sherlock's lap. She offered him her hand for the second time that night and grinned. "Let's go drink."  
They walked out together, not quite touching but close enough that Sherlock could feel her body heat.

Mycroft flinched as Moriarty overturned another table, screaming wordlessly as he did so.  
"THAT WASN'T THE PLAN!" He shrieked, spit flying from his mouth. "SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO HATE HIM! SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO COME HERE AND CHOOSE! HE'S NOT SUPPOSED TO LIKE HER!"  
Mycroft shook his head. "As far as I know, Sherlock has never been a sexual creature."  
"This whole plan was based off of YOU KNOWING WHAT YOU WERE TALKING ABOUT!" Moriarty yelled, punching a wall. "Now fix it! I want her back here so I can DESTROY HER."  
"That would not be wise, Jim," Mycroft said quietly. "He's growing attached. He'd never finish your ridiculous game."  
"No, he wouldn't, would he?" Moriarty mused. "You'd never get to see your brother fall off his high horse. I'd never get to finish my game. Oh!" He exclaimed. "I could make her choose: Sherlock or Blomkvist... and when she chooses Blomkvist and leaves Sherlock devastated, I'll drop in and BURN him!" Jim clapped, delighted.  
"Mycroft, this may actually work!" He said with a manic grin.


	7. Chapter 7

Lisbeth pushed open the door to the Irish pub Sherlock had pointed out and frowned. John was sitting by Lestrade and his face was beet red as he laughed at a story Lestrade was telling. She looked at Sherlock, a single eyebrow raised.

Sherlock shook his head and walked over to where they were sitting, Lisbeth trailing behind.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade roared; he reeked of alcohol. "How are you, man?" He beamed, noticing Lisbeth. "And Salander? How are you doing?"

Lisbeth smiled crookedly. "Still sore."

Lestrade choked on his drink. "Oh! Um. Well, interesting."

Lisbeth frowned. "From Moriarty... and that idiot Donovan hitting me in the ribs."

John snorted. "Chill, Lestrade. Let's not jump to conclusions, yeah?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Idiots," he muttered. He turned toward the bartender and asked "What kind of scotch do you have?"

The bartender shook his head. "Dunno, friend. 'M brand new!"

Lisbeth grinned at Sherlock, obviously amused by the response. "I'll take Jack Daniels and Coke."

Sherlock nodded at Lisbeth's voice. "Yes. I'll have that too."

John and Lestrade snickered. "Have you ever had Jack Daniels, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shook his head. Lisbeth smirked. "You'll love it," she promised.

When handed his drink, Sherlock made a face and sipped at it. Lisbeth roared with laughter and took a large swallow and he mimicked her actions, not one to be outdone.

Two hours and many drinks later, Lisbeth and John were supporting a very drunk Sherlock on the way out while Lestrade roared with laughter.

"Promise me you'll send me a photograph of him tomorrow," he pleaded, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes.

"Shuddup Lestrade," Sherlock mumbled. "I'll be spiffy tomorrow!"

Lisbeth snickered. She turned to John and mouthed "Spiffy?"

John's face was red from alcohol and laughing. He shook his head, bewildered by Sherlock's strange vocabulary.

John and Lisbeth half-dragged, half pulled Sherlock down the street; Sherlock mumbling nonsense the whole way, especially as they neared Baker Street.

"Anderson would make an amusing elephant seal, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock snorted, laughter escaping him in bubbles. "If he sat on the floor and clapped his hands together and - oops!" He giggled as he tripped over his own shoe and fell. Lisbeth snorted and grabbed his arm, turning to John in amusement. "Is he like this every time he drinks?"

"Nah," John said with a grin. "He just doesn't drink much."

"Not much?" She mutter, pulling a still giggling Sherlock forward. "More like never."

The inebriated trio finally reached 221B. John handed Lisbeth his key and said "Here. I'll hold Boy Genius over here while you unlock the door."

"Geni pojke," Lisbeth smiled, remembering that she had called Sherlock the same thing the first time she met him. She unlocked the door with mostly steady hands (she was much better at holding her alcohol than Sherlock) and pushed the door open before grabbing Sherlock's arm and pulling him up the stairs while John pushed from behind, Sherlock laughing the whole time.

"Where... do we take... this idiot?" Lisbeth asked, breathing heavily as they finally got Sherlock into the flat.

John looked around. "Well, we could dump him on the couch and you could take his room, if you wanted."

Lisbeth raised a single eyebrow. "His room is safe, ja?"

John smirked. "Probably not. You can kip on the couch then. We should probably make this one sleep in his room," he said, repositioning Sherlocks arm around his neck. Sherlock snored lightly as Lisbeth grabbed his other arm and he was dragged to his bedroom.

Once inside, they found a room mostly occupied by books and lab equipment; texbooks and papers seemed to have taken over his bed.

"You okej to hold him while I push this skit on the floor?" Lisbeth asked, unaware that she was swapping some words into Swedish.

John nodded and braced himself against the wall. "Go."

Lisbeth grabbed as many books as she could and dropped them on the floor, finding every available surface and pushing papers and books wherever she could. Once she finished, she grabbed Sherlock's arm and her and John rolled Sherlock into bed. John tried to push him on his back, but Lisbeth stopped him. "If he vomits in the middle of the night, he'll choke. Leave him on his side."

They pulled the sheet up over Sherlock and Lisbeth shook her head. "He never drinks, yeah? Why the hell did he drink tonight?"

John shrugged. "Trying to impress you, I suppose. He tried to keep up with you, didn't he?"

Lisbeth snorted. "God natt, John," she said, walking out of Sherlock's bedroom and back into the living area of the flat.

John sighed and looked at Sherlock. "Of all things to make you drink and be normal... a girl, Sherlock? Irene just made you more crazy. So what is it about her, huh?"

Sherlock stirred and mumbled something.

"Hmm?" John asked, not particularly paying attention.

"Mmph. Go 'way," Sherlock mumbled, waving a hand.

John sighed. "You got it, mate," he said and left the room to get Lisbeth a blanket and pillow.

In the other room, Lisbeth had changed into sweatpants and a shirt advertising Jim Beam Whiskey. She sat on the couch and laid back, closing her eyes and placing her index fingers on her temples. She didn't notice John walk in.

"I brought you a blanket," John said quietly, holding it out with the pillow.

"Mitt tack," Lisbeth said, taking the blanket. She smiled when she looked at the pattern; it matched the jumper John was wearing - grey with stripes of black and the same raised bumps.

John opened his mouth and then closed it. "I think," he started slowly. "I think Sherlock thinks very highly of you."

Lisbeth sat patiently waiting for him to continue. "Ja?"

"Yeah," John paused. "You need to know he doesn't take to people. You saw how Donovan reacted to him, and Anderson isn't much better. Lestrade cares for him and so does his brother, and he's my best mate. He likes Mrs. Hudson." John stopped, a strange look on his face. "And then there's you."

Lisbeth frowned. "What about me?" She asked, confused. She wracked her brain for something - anything, really, that would set her apart. Sure, she was a freak, that much was obvious. But why would Sherlock care?

John chose his next words carefully. "He calls himself a high-functioning sociopath. I, however, don't think that is true. He's demonstrated time and time again that he can use his conscience. He does care for people, no matter how much he may try to deny it. And, well, I think he cares for you, too," John smiled. "I don't know what made him take to you so quickly, but he cares."

Lisbeth's mind was whirling. She focused on the yellow face on the wall as she tried to comprehend what John had said. "You say he's not a sociopath," she started slowly. "Then what is he?"

"If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say mild autism or Asperger's syndrome coupled with a very intelligent mind."

Lisbeth frowned. She had overheard Blomkvist say the same thing about her to his sister once. "Okej," she said. "I like him as well. He's not full of shit like a lot of people these days." She paused and considered John. "You aren't either."

John smiled at her. "Good night, Lisbeth."

"God natt, John," Lisbeth replied, settling back on the couch and pulling the blanket around herself, considering the night's events quietly to herself.

Moriarty danced around the warehouse, avoiding bits of metal and things that could trip him up. He paused, looking around until he spotted what he was looking for. Picking up an umbrella of Mycroft's that he had borrowed - no, stolen - no, borrowed with the intention of giving back to a Holmes, he opened it up and got out his set of paints. He lifted the lid of a red jar and crouched down on the dirty floor and painted 'GET LISBETH' in large letters on it. He proceeded to snap a picture of it and send it to Sherlock's phone from his restricted number and waited.

He blew a bubble with his gum and went off to find that idiot Blomkvist. With any luck, he'd have figured out he was being taped and would try to get a message to Lisbeth.

'Come out and play, Salander,' he thought with a smirk. 'Time for round two!'

Sherlock awoke to a pounding head and a queasy stomach. Forcing his eyes open and staring at the smooth ceiling of his bedroom - his bedroom? He never slept in here if he could help it...

Refocusing his mind, he tried to remember what happened the previous night. If anything was to be gathered from the taste in his mouth and the migraine he currently had, he would deduce he had gotten drunk last night. But why? The last time he drank so much he woke up with a hangover was back in his drug days.

He thought hard. The last thing he could remember was being in his mind palace and thinking about onions and Lisbeth and - oh.

Lisbeth.

Sherlock's memories came rushing out of his mind palace in a rush; he saw himself and Lisbeth on the couch. Cheeks tinting pink, he pushed that aside for later... analysis.

"Okay. What else happened?" He asked himself quietly. He remembered walking to the bar with Lisbeth and meeting up with John and Lestrade. He remembered ordering the same thing that she ordered, and after that, everything was blurry.

Sighing, he rolled out of bed and promptly tripped over the numerous stacks of books piled on the floor. He fell onto his knees and cursed. Pushing himself up once again, he stumbled to the door and threw it open, yawning widely as he shuffled into the living room. Plucking his mobile off of the kitchen table, he opened his texts and froze when he saw his most recent message.

Mycroft's favourite black umbrella with a silver handle had been opened and painted on. Large red letters spelling the words 'GET LISBETH' had been painted on it.

Sherlock immediately called his brother while searching the flat for signs of life. Lisbeth and John were nowhere to be found, but wasn't John working today? No, no, no, he worked yesterday! But doesn't he work multiple days in a row sometimes?

"What is it Sherlock? Please tell me you're not in jail again," Mycroft's voice sounded from the other side of the phone.

"Mycroft? What happened? Where are you? Is Moriarty there?" Sherlock asked quickly, his free hand running through his messy hair.

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked slowly, wracking his brain for signs that Sherlock knew about his collaboration with Moriarty.

Sherlock stilled his hand and inhaled sharply. "You haven't been taken by Moriarty?"

Mycroft laughed, relieved. "Of course not. Don't be ridicu-"

Sherlock hung up before Mycroft could finish his sentence. Now that he knew his brother wasn't in immediate danger, he could focus on the pressing problem of Lisbeth and John being missing.

He called John, hoping he would pick up.

"Sherlock? You alright, mate?" John asked carefully, aware that Sherlock was probably not feeling well at the moment.

"Yes. No. Where are you and Lisbeth?" Sherlock asked, observing the way Lisbeth had left her things in a perfect pile next to the couch. Borderline obsessive. OCD, perhaps? He was jolted back into reality when John's voice sounded.

"Uh, I'm at work, and I believe Lisbeth said she was going to get food and more clothes. You okay?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Goodbye," Sherlock replied disjointedly, hanging up. He paced back and forth, waiting for Lisbeth to come home.

Lisbeth rang the bell at 221B, shifting the bags in her arm and leaning against the door. She stared at the people who walked by and tried to analyze them, but her analysis was cut short when the door was wrenched open behind her. Sherlock grabbed the bags from her arms and dropped them on the floor before checking her for injury.

"You're okay? Not hurt? He didn't get to you again?" Sherlock asked, finishing his once over of her health and looking into her confused, pale eyes.

"Ja. I'm fine," she said, a worried smile stretching across her face. "Are you?"

Sherlock sighed, relieved. "Yes. Yes, I'm okay." He picked up the bags he had taken from her and pulled her across the threshold, shutting the door and walking up the stairs.

Lisbeth grinned to herself and followed him upstairs. Her ribs were feeling much better and she intended to make good use of her improved health...

Once upstairs, Sherlock set everything down on the empty space of the kitchen table and turned around, only to find Lisbeth standing VERY close to him. Mere inches separated them; Sherlock swallowed hard and tried to remember to breathe.

Lisbeth extended her hands and wound her fingers through Sherlock's curls, pulling him down and kissing him gently. He sighed and leaned into the kiss, placing a single hand on her lower back and pressing closer to her. Lisbeth smiled into his lips and bit down gently.

The next thing she knew she was pressed against the wall that, until very recently, was five feet behind her. Sherlock pressed hard against her and kissed her urgently. In order to make up for the height difference, Sherlock decided to lift Lisbeth off the ground. She responded happily, wrapping her legs around his waist and pressing right against his growing erection.

He groaned and pulled at Lisbeth's sweatshirt, managing to get it off of her without much difficulty. Lisbeth hissed and attacked his shirt, loosening her grip on his waist momentarily so she could pull it over his head. Running her hands over his chest, she leaned down and bit his neck, grinning when she heard him groan.

Sherlock pulled away slightly and asked"Bedroom?" in a breathless voice.

Lisbeth nodded, her pupils dilated and her face pink. "Ja. Skynda dig."

So Sherlock walked to his bedroom, Lisbeth still wrapped around his waist, a smile crossing his face as he let go for the first time in a long time.


End file.
